Battered old pickup trucks leaving trails of desert dust in their wake. Pulling up to a busted old parking lot with tin cans and glass beer bottles scattered around '94 Chryslers. Dressed in indigo denim and arenaceous brown boots, striding up to a smoky bar with the muffled sound of raw blues rock coming from inside becoming clearer with each dusty step.

Filthy money and ten cent pistols with a large shot of dry whiskey. The clack-clack of billiard balls on a stretch of cobalt green baize. Ex-girls and next girls. An intimate crowd in dreamy languor with nodding heads and hand claps.